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by yeaka



Category: Maleficent (2014)
Genre: Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 22:03:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3184820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aurora’s godparents do her hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

  * For [BelsanEmpress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelsanEmpress/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for pepitaladinamita’s “Maleficent, Aurora and Diaval being a cute and weird chosen family” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Maleficent or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Their kingdoms are magnificent from this ledge, although, of course, they’re magnificent from anywhere. But Maleficent’s found this particular perch a pinnacle of beauty, and she’s proud to fly Aurora up in her arms, Diaval trailing close behind. 

They land near the thin edge and crowd against the rock wall behind them, Aurora as unafraid of the height as she is of everything. The mossy growth beneath them makes for fair seating, and the mid-afternoon sun keeps the air fresh and warm. The orange glow of sunlight is over everything, reaching through the moors to the lands of the mortals. Aurora gapes around at everything, smile stretched wide across her face while she laughs, “It’s beautiful!”

Diaval, bursting into the form of a man in a billow of black smoke, follows her gaze. But she has no single direction: Aurora thinks _everything_ is beautiful, and that’s half her charm. 

It takes her a few minutes to finish ogling the scenery. Finally, she settles back to where Maleficent sits, her pale skirts dancing around the long, green hem of Maleficent’s dress in the shallow breeze. Her golden hair whips all about her, and Maleficent asks slowly, “What would you like to do now?” Because half her days are just spent showing her young princess the world. Aurora reaches out two delicate hands to help tuck Maleficent’s long hair behind her horns so it won’t obscure her vision, and at first, Maleficent thinks her brown mane is going to be braided again. 

But instead, Aurora sings, “I always braid your hair. Can you braid mine?” She often has her own hair done up in different configurations, so she must be able to do it herself, but the longing look on her face says she just wants someone else to for once. Maleficent, always prepared to give Aurora the world, almost agrees. 

But then she remembers, oh yes, she _can’t_.

Her mind is full of magic. Of how to rule her kingdom. Of ways to protect her borders and her stepchild. All the little niceties... she forgot those long ago, in the long dredge of darkness that shadowed most of her adult years. Braiding hair is just one of the many little comforts that’s been shut out of her grasp, though she’s not sure how to explain such a small inability. She looks sideways at Diaval, her lips parted and the inadequacy in her eyes, because on the rare occasions when she needs _saving_ , he’s the only one she’s ever been able to turn to. 

Except Aurora, of course, but Aurora’s who _she_ wants to save. She’s grateful when Diaval seems to understand; his dark eyes cast over, and he reaches his arms out to their angel. He smiles eagerly as he asks, “May I?”

“I didn’t know you could,” Aurora gasps, looking tremendously impressed, as though a cow’s offered to dig her a tunnel. She clambers over Maleficent’s lap, even as Diaval tries to muffle an indignant look; he likes to think he can do everything. Everything he wants, anyway. 

He accepts her into his lap, and she settles down between his longer longs, her light dress a sharp contrast to all his dark clothes. She sits with rigid posture, brimming with anticipation, and Diaval gathers all of her wavy hair over her shoulders. He asks, “What kind would you like?” Maleficent wonders how many he knows. How much do ravens see, how much do they assimilate and learn? For one brief second, she’s bizarrely jealous; he’s never offered to braid _her_ hair. But then, she supposes, she’s never asked. 

Aurora shrugs, bright expression unaffected by any options. “Oh, I don’t know. Anything you like.” Then she twists her face over her shoulder, asking with wide eyes, “What do you think, Godmother?” 

Maleficent opens her mouth only to find this one of those rare occasions where she has nothing to say. Lifting her high eyebrows, she says tactfully, “You’ll look beautiful in anything,” then tells Diaval, “Anything will do, I suppose.”

Diaval gives a determined nod. The way he intensely stares at the hair in his hands, full of concentration as he starts to part it, Maleficent has to wonder if he’s trying to impress her. Either that, or braiding takes more effort than she remembers. 

Once it’s sectioned out, Diaval lifts one group in his right hand, his elegant fingers curled tight around it, the left following suit. He draws one carefully over to the other, passing it off, and his grip shifts to accommodate both strands while the now-free hand grabs the third. There’s a certain awkwardness to the way Diaval holds Aurora’s hair, and at times, they seem to shake. Maleficent assumes he’s nervous—maybe he _is_ trying to impress her—and after he’s made several loops, it becomes obvious that for all his focus, his problems show through. He successfully pulls Aurora’s waif-like hair into a thick braid, but with stray strands poking out everywhere and uneven bulges where too much has escaped. Despite the haphazard look, he studiously goes on, until Maleficent makes a small clicking noise with her tongue. 

His head sharply turns to hers, looking annoyed. It’s probably more over his poor show than her interruption. She gently says, “It’s not quite... perfect.” And Aurora deserves perfect, even if she’ll always be happy settling lower. Diaval scowls. 

“I’m used to having talons, not hands.” It’s a fair point, but he might not believe so himself—he turns back to glare down at his creation, like willing it to sort itself out.

Aurora reaches her hand back to feel over his, sliding her small fingers down the messy braid. Once she reaches his hands, she gives them a little squeeze and tells him kindly, “That’s alright. I’m sure it looks wonderful.” Diaval’s cheeks turn faintly pink around his crosshatched indents.

By now, Maleficent thinks she has the hang of it. Even if Diaval didn’t do it exactly right, he did it well enough for her to relearn the long-forgotten skill, and she lays her hand on Aurora’s shoulder, deciding aloud, “I’ll do the rest, come here.”

Aurora always prefers Maleficent over everyone, everything. She loves Diaval, but she and Maleficent have a special bond, so she hastens over at the offer, slipping easily out of Diaval’s lap and into Maleficent’s. Diaval’s nest-like braid half undoes itself in the commotion, and for a moment, he looks miffed. Then he ruffles himself back up again into the usual pride, and Maleficent gives him a fond, appreciative look to let him know he’s still valued. His blush deepens under the attention, and he turns away to silently preen. 

Maleficent leaves what remains of Diaval’s work but starts to twist the rest into a tight, seamless vision of grace. Aurora leans warmly back into her, content with both shows of love.


End file.
